Bloody Sunday: Death and Carnage

The sounds of machine guns penetrated my ears as I watched the tear gas creep towards me. Only a few minutes earlier, I had been complaining to my mom. 

“How long do we have to stand here for? It’s been an hour!”

“Stop worrying about that. We’re here for the rights of the Catholic people; this is more important than you think, but one day you’ll understand.” Mother had told me before that a new law in Ireland had given the police the power to imprison people without trial. At the time, I didn’t really see why I needed to know. But as this scourge moved towards me, I was beginning to piece things together.

Suddenly, I was pulled out of my thoughts by my mother, dragging me by my hand, trying to escape. I was confused about why the military men were shooting at us; we were just peaceful protesters. I could see the hatred in their eyes, but I wondered - why did they hate us so much? We are all Irish, aren’t we?

The people around me screamed as they ran for their lives. The police brutally handcuffed those they could catch, while bullets pierced through the bodies they could not. 

On our manic journey home to safety, we were pushed and shoved. People who didn’t go to the protest stared out from their windows, seemingly afraid of the terror on their streets.

When we finally made it home, mother didn’t talk at all; her face was a blank piece of paper.

“Why were the military men shooting at us? Aren’t they supposed to protect us?”

My mother did not respond.

I worried about where dad was at that moment. Everybody in Bogside had gone to the protest; if dad had been there, he should’ve been home by now.

By nighttime, he still hadn’t come back home. 

“Mom, where is father? Can we go look for him?” With this question, my comatose mother finally snapped out of her shock and seemed to see me, at last, for the first time since we had fled. 

“Maybe he is just injured and still being treated where we were protesting.”

“Please, can we go check!” I couldn’t believe she seemed so utterly unworried. Despite her inability to talk to me, I felt I had to take responsibility. That’s when I decided to sneak out. I had to find my dad, even if mom thought it unnecessary. 

When I arrived back at the scene of the chaos, the streets were filled with more horror. Dead bodies lay all around, and broken glass bottles now adorned where I walked. Pools of blood sat stagnantly, coagulating on the ground.

From the corner of my eyes, I could see a familiar face looking up from the ground to the sky. I hoped it wasn’t who I thought it was, but laying there, face up and back down, my father appeared to be praying to our God above. 

I ran to him, trying to wake him up, but it was too late. His opened eyes had no life in them. How would I tell my mom? How could I possibly break the news to her? But these questions, those of an innocent twelve year old boy, were pushed away when the rage set in, and my revenge began to move my mind like a puppet master. The soldiers who had done this would pay. 

10 years later, I am no longer a child. I sit down in a dark room with my comrades, fierce, powerful men of the IRA. We plan our next bombing of the border…